Okay so I wrote this elaborate story about the catacombs but in my frustration with the shitty internet I guess I didn’t save it before I hard reset my computer and I’m too lazy to rewrite it since the magic has sort of dissipated since it was Saturday and it’s now Monday and I have other ridiculous stories.
So in short, if you don’t know what the Paris catacombs are they’re the secret underground tunnels that were buried under the city hundreds of years ago. Yes, there is the part with the creepy bones all stacked up to the ceiling, I thought I was going to see it but I didn’t (you can pay to see that part, this part is illegal to enter). What I saw was a creepy maze of tunnels, water up to your waste (I ruined a good pair of shoes, who thinks oh in Paris I will need knee high rubber boots?!), the ceiling is very low in some places (I had to walk like a reverse chart of human evolution) a lot of graffiti, street signs older than the Louisiana Purchase (maybe?? They’re definitely older than every American suburb though, but you can fact check me if you want). So, eventually we find this alcove to settle in for a little (to drink wine and smoke cigarettes and make merriness), there was a large castle (sand castle style) carved out of the walls of an unidentified age. Randomly we ran into a strange news crew from Quebec that interviewed my companions, uninterested in an interview in English…although people speak English in Canada too. It really seemed like an out of body experience to be under a city in this strange dark place. It was really like a mixture of Scooby Doo, Indiana Jones, and L’Auberge Espagnole. So, google it I don’t know what else to say about it besides it was interesting.
So, then the next day (Saturday) my hosts and new friends at this apartment in Jaures (the neighborhood) had a birthday party. As I may have said before, my French is not perfect; I can for the most part say what I’m thinking and get my point across if I have patient listeners but I get kind of lost in a conversation when there are multiple people or someone speaks too fast or doesn’t enunciate their words, it makes it harder to concentrate. So anyways, I feel like learning/speaking a new language is like dating. So on your first day you may be too nervous to have a good conversation because you’re scared of saying the wrong thing and misrepresenting yourself...so if you’re like me you need to have a couple of drinks to loosen up. So, after two or three…you can say what’s on your mind without being too scared of what your prospective lover will think. Then after dipping your toes in the water you get a little bit more comfortable with the person, after a few more dates you’re dating. Maybe you’re kissing (saying hello, and asking for directions, and making small talk), then you go the bases yanno first base second base (effectively telling an elaborate story in French), and then when you’re finally able to talk about politics, religion, and science it’s sex. So, I cannot wait to pop my metaphorical cherry…but I feel like I’ll get lucky eventually.
So, language learning rant aside the party was interesting. I met a lot of French people, spoke a lot of Franglais (French + English), and witnessed a fight; Elsa is a badass (and my new best friend in Paris)…the fight happened with some guys of the other roommate being disrespectful to the apartment and they tried to kick them out yadayadayada Elsa lays down the law on some surrender monkeys blahblahblah it was kind of funny. Afterwards the party continues, just like any other American college kid party. A college party is a college party is a college party….except maybe for the people who I’m going to school with which I’ll explain later. So, after drinking much courage to speak entirely in French I got the spins and had to go to bed….hopefully I don’t do that on my next date.
End.
The next day I met with my new roommate to be who was a bit indecisive about whether or not he wanted me to stay in his apartment (I suppose it is a big deal to live with a stranger). So I saw this apartment first last Tuesday, it took until Sunday for him to choose, but he chose me!!! How lucky am I to find such a decent apartment within a week. Comparatively it’s a good price, I’d much rather live in Africa (the neighborhood’s a lot of African and Muslim immigrants) in a nice apartment with very nice furniture and my own room, internet, nice and clean roommate, than near St. Germain de Pres near my school. So if we use the New York analogy I’m living in Brooklyn (minus all the hipsters and artists) and commuting to my school on the Upper East Side like the Humphreys from gossip girl, it’s the only metaphor I could think of.
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